Remember
by Ifwecansparkle
Summary: In which all versions of Willy Wonka are the real version, or in which it's time to say goodbye to an old friend. In memory of Gene Wilder.


**In loving memory of Mr. Gene Wilder: you made my childhood warm, imaginative and beautiful. You gave me a story that means more to me than I can explain. Your smile made me feel safe and your voice sounded like home. In the end, you died of the- same disease that took my grandmother less than half a year ago. If you find the time, say hello to her for me. In the meantime, thank you for everything.**

 _"I know I wasn't perfect. I know my life was small. I know that I pretended that I knew it all. But when you tell my story (and I hope somebody does), remember me as something bigger than I was." - Edward Bloom, Big Fish_

-  
"I died today," Willy Wonka said at the dinner table, so matter-of-factly that Mr. Theodore Bucket dropped his fork.

Willy took a dainty bite of cottage pie and chewed, watching the seven confused faces hawkishly. They glanced around the table at each other before all eyes landed on Charlie, in hopes of receiving an explanation. The boy's eyebrows shot up, hiding under his dark and unruly fringe, and he gave a surreptitious shake of the head, indicating that he did not have an explanation.

"Willy, dear," Mrs. Bucket began, clearing her throat experimentally, "I'm afraid we don't understand. Could you explain?"

"I died today," Willy repeated, wide-eyed and sincere. More confused looks were exchanged.

"You're pale as a ghost, but you look right flesh and blood to me," said Grandpa George, always the first to elaborate on his confusion.

"Was there an accident in the Inventing Room?" Theodora questioned, hoping that a gentle prompt would receive an answer. Willy was prone to hyperbole and understatement in equal measure, held together with private asides and cryptic messages. The things he said often had to be teased apart in order to reveal their meaning.

Willy blinked, apparently confused at how he could have been so misinterpreted.

"What we mean, Mr. Wonka," Charlie continued where his mother left off, "Is that you look awfully alive to us. What makes you think that you-um-died?"

"Don't call me Mr. Wonka," Willy said, muscle memory taking over, before he continued, "How old do you think I am, Charlie?"

The youngest Bucket floundered. He had often tried, privately, to guess Wonka's age, but never settled on a number. He never really seemed to be just one age at all. Charlie's eyes dropped to his plate and he toyed with the corner of his napkin a moment before he spoke.

"Thirty-seven?"

Wonka chuckled, not his typical nervous laugh. When Charlie looked at him he was smiling tightly, lips pressed together and perfect white teeth unseen.

"Charlie," he said, his voice filled with unusually apparent gravitas, "I'm older than you think. I've lived a lot of lives, all jumbled together, some of them. And one-" for a brief moment everyone at the table thought they saw his eyes flash soft blue instead of their usual piercing purple, "-one has ended."

The Bucket family sat in stunned silence, trying to puzzle through this confession. Grandpa Joe whistled low, and Grandma Josephine took his hand.

"Gelatin," Grandma Georgina said sagely, and Willy nodded.

"Pieces of me are always being born and dying," he said. "One, long ago. Before you yourself were born, Charlie. In Oxford, I think. And today..." His gloved fingers fluttered.

Charlie felt a pang of concern. "Does it-hurt?"

Willy considered. "N-oo-o," he said after a moment, as if he wasn't quite sure of himself. "It just feels a little...empty, you know?"

Charlie, who understood emptiness better than death, nodded.

"Will there be a-a funeral, Willy?" Mrs. Bucket asked, trying her best to follow along.

"No!" Wonka exclaimed with unusual force. He settled himself carefully in his chair and brushed off his coat carefully before he continued, "no. I don't like them. I wouldn't want one."

"Then what should we do?" Charlie asked.

"Remember me," Willy said. "All the parts you knew, remember them. Remind me, so I don't forget. I think-I think I forgot a lot of things, in the end. Remind me of them."

The Buckets nodded their silent understanding. Grandma Georgina said "Golden curls," as if she understood better than any of them.

"Yes," Willy said, smiling dreamily. "Yes, thank you."

Dinner was long over when Grandpa Joe checked the evening paper, starting with the obituaries. There was a story about the death of an actor, one who loved to make children smile. Joe almost thought he remembered him.


End file.
